


for when the need presents itself

by derryere



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Lust Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryere/pseuds/derryere
Summary: Arthur has a problem, Merlin has a potion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Haha WELL! I was going through old fics to repost here and came across this oldie and had near to NO recollection of having written it. It's ridiculous filth, but where else would ridiculous filth go if not here. 
> 
> *turns on opening credits & throws around the glitter*

The second night they're guests to the earl's household, Merlin shoulders past the heavy door of Arthur's chambers to find them empty. He takes half a step into the quarters, frowning, arms heavy and with bits of armour. He leans forward a bit to peer into the adjacent room, finds it devoid of a presence of any kind, and his frown settles in deeper.   
  
He dumps the armour on the table, slumps into one of the chairs, and waits a thoughtful moment before lifting his arm to the tabletop and leaving it there.   
  
"Huh," he says, almost in conclusion, scratching at the patterns of the wood--checking its quality by trying to scape at the varnish. He recalls Arthur before the welcome feast, the nudging elbow he got to his side when the earl's daughter was announced to the room with a flourish of wide skirts and low bows.   
  
'Oi, mate,' Arthur'd hissed out of the corner of his mouth, nudging him again and grinning, 'look at  _that_.'   
  
Merlin inspects his fingernails. The paint came off far too easily, and now his fingers were rimmed brownish and dirty. Idly, he remembers Arthur's promise of 'watch and learn, young one!' before he set off onto the dance floor--demanding the girl's attention with a gentle hand to her waist and a lazy smile.   


Shaking his head to himself, Merlin slaps the table once before getting to his feet again. He walks to the tall window with the intention of closing it, but stays there for a moment longer instead, looking out at the view of the rocky shore. The air is thick and salty here, the wind always quick to rise at any moment of the day, and the birds are everywhere.   
  
But it's nice.   
  
"Lucky bastard," he mutters on a quiet laugh, and slowly shuts the window closed, leaving his hand on the pane for a moment before turning back to the room--starting an easy shuffle toward the small servant's bed on the other side of the room. 

 

For someone who didn't spend the night in his own bed, who not to mention looked the part of sleep-deprived and scruffy, Arthur was particularly bitchy. And all Merlin did was push the breakfast tray onto the table, sit himself on the edge and quietly pick at the cheeses.   
  
"What are you doing?" Arthur asks him, looking up wide-eyed from under a disbelieving frown. His hands come up, arms wide in question as he repeats, "What the bloody hell are you doing?"   
  
Merlin pauses, half a chunk of bread still in his cheek, and he blinks at Arthur for a moment before glancing to his side--unsure. "Uhh..." is as far as he gets before Arthur shoves at his side, pushing him off the table.   
  
"Sitting on my table," he grumbles with dark incredulity, half-heartedly aiming a kick at Merlin as the boy dances out of reach, a grunt of protest muffled by his mouthful.   
  
"Christ" Merlin says on a breath, having chewed down his food and removed himself from Arthur's vicinity as quickly as possible. "Well, 'scuse me," he mutters, giving Arthur a knotted, non-understanding glare.   
  
"What?" Arthur snaps, head minutely jerking back in defence under Merlin's gaze. "What is it, Merlin? Can't I tell you what to do any more? Should I just let you do whatever all the time? I'm still your bloody master, you know, not your--" He stops, briefly closes his eyes before giving a vague wave, adding a muttered, "Just bugger off or something. Goodbye."   
  
"What," Merlin wants to know, "crawled up your--"   
  
"Good.  _Bye._ " Arthur raises his eyebrows to underline this, staring for a moment longer then turning to his breakfast, picking up his knife to spike a hunk of meat.   
  
Merlin looks at him. He sighs with frustration, loudly, and keeps looking.  
  
Arthur starts cutting up the meat into bits, knife wildly slamming against the plate.   
  
"Whatever," Merlin says, and turns to leave the room.   
  
"Ugh," Arthur says, and Merlin pauses at the door. He gives the wood before him a quick, long-suffering look and then turns around again, crossing his arms over his chest.   
  
"Ugh," Arthur says again.   
  
"What?" Merlin asks, annoyed.   
  
"Hm," is Arthur's answer to that.  
  
Merlin blinks, slowly, unimpressed. "This is going to take forever, isn't it?"   
  
"Hmpf," agrees Arthur, and begins his attack on a wary looking lump of cheese.   
  
\--  
  
It's several hours later, numerous degrees of gritting anger (on Arthur's part) and a variety of not-so-very-patient patience (on Merlin's part) further that the issue comes to light.   
  
Well, not so much Comes To Light as shouted in the form of three words right about the time Merlin decided he's had enough and began rewarding every vague mumble of an answer with a swipe to the back of Arthur's head. It wasn't hard, not much more than a swat, but it annoyed just enough for Arthur to go, 'Ow--what're you--!', and '--would--Merlin!--stop the--!', and '--idiot--I command you to--ow, bloody--' just once before he flailed his arms in Merlin's general direction and exclaimed in a red-faced frenzy that 'Couldn't,' 'Get,' and 'Up.'   
  
Consequently, after Merlin had frozen mid-swat, mid-laugh, and stared at Arthur with an odd blankness, promises had to be made.   
  
And by promises, it is meant that Merlin was sworn to secrecy with one arm twisted behind his back, and by made, it is meant he had to shout 'All right! ALL RIGHT! _To my grave!_ ' repeatedly into the carpet, as Arthur was sitting on his back, pushing his face into the floor.  
  
\--  
  
On the third day, sometime during the late afternoon while out for stroll on the beach, Merlin hands Arthur a very, very small vial and says,   
  
"Don't ask. Don't think. Just drink it."   
  
They're sitting on the rocks, watching the royal party and the nobles walk with their arms clasped behind their backs or looped into one another's, leaving behind them a messy trail of footsteps in the sand.   
  
Arthur gives him a dark look, and it doesn't even come close to a thanks when--a good staring while later--he grabs the vial with a grumble and pockets it.   
  
"You're very welcome," Merlin mumbles through a tight jaw, turning to squint out at the sea again.

 

Merlin doesn't have to be at Arthur's side all the time during the feast, is allowed his momentary freedom to exchange tired but laughing words with the other servants--new people, new friends who are nice to him in ways the staff in Camelot rarely is to the unqualified servant to the prince. And he's grateful for that, for those brief sections of a minute or ten in which Arthur would wave him away and he'd have a bit of a dance in the back with the girl from the kitchens, or raise a goblet of their superior's wine with one of the pages--toasting to their health, to booze, and may the entire nobility wake up tomorrow morning with asses for face. I'd drink to that, says the half-drunken page, and Merlin can only agree with a grinning Cheers, my friend!  _Cheers!_  
  
And then there'll be a vague nod from across the room, and he'd be back at the prince's back, displeased and bored, pouring wine into a cup and watching Arthur squirm in his seat. For acknowledgement all he gets is a distracted glance and a slightly raised forefinger from where it holds the cup, and then Arthur is leaning toward the daughter again--talking quieter today, more gentle, a faint flush up the back of his neck. He shifts again, uncomfortable, and Merlin thinks, Oh shit.   
  
"What?" Arthur says, suddenly turning to Merlin.   
  
"What?"  
  
"You just said oh shit."   
  
"Oh," says Merlin. Then, "Shit."   
  
" _What?_ "  
  
Merlin glances down at the wineskin in his hands. Then up a bit, eyes fleeting over Arthur's legs--under the table--quick to come up again, a bit pained as he tries his best not to grimace when he hunches closer over Arthur's shoulder.   
  
"Arthur, you didn't--" He stops, reconsiders, and finishes on a hurried exhale of, "Please tell me you didn't drink the entire draught before the feast."   
  
"Of course I didn't," Arthur says in a whisper, follows it with a scowl. Merlin has a second to breathe relief when--  
  
"I drank it just now. With the wine. I wouldn't do something like that on an empty stomach." He huffs, turns back to the table. "I'm not  _stupid_."   
  
\--  
  
A good while after Arthur swears to have him hanged ten times over, and only a few minutes after the decorative helmet (and a boot, and a book) have come hurtling at Merlin's head, Merlin manages to finally interject with a shouted,   
  
"How was I supposed to know you were so thick as to not understand you take a potency potion when,  _you know_ ," --he makes a wild gesture, face red and hair wild, "-- _the need for potency actually presents itself?_ "  
  
"Well how the bloody  _fuck_  was  _I_  supposed to know," Arthur yells back, "the bloody woman wouldn't  _have_  me after--" He stops, considers his own words, then turns back to the room--madly searching for something heavier to throw at Merlin's constantly ducking figure.   
  
\--  
  
Later that evening Merlin picks out the most comfortable looking stack of hay on the wooden platform above the stalls, covers it with a sheet, and calls it his home for the night. The horses don't seem to mind for the greater part, and neither does the stable boy and his giggling partner from below.   
  
Sleep doesn't come easy, the smells of the surroundings too strong and the winds blowing from the east far too loud for him to get used to. He grunts, ignores the straw poking him from all directions, and looks up at the small window embedded into the roof. 

 

\--

 

Arthur sits at the table by the window, elbows propped on the surface--head in his hands, face flushed and buried in his palms. It's a nice day, overall, it's sunnier than it's been for a while now and the light of spring seems even brighter when reflected in the waters. Merlin tries to concentrate on that, think about that and not anything else that has to do with this very, very awkward room.   
  
"I don't understand," Arthur says, voice muffled, "why it hasn't worn off yet."   
  
Merlin shuffles, and is very interested in a hardened bit of stain on the hem of his shirt--scratching at it--as he quietly replies that--  
  
"I don't think it's meant to, uh, wear off." He glances up, quickly, and finds that Arthur has dropped his hands to the table--is staring at them now.   
  
"I think," Merlin weakly continues, "I think it's supposed to do what it's, you know. Supposed to do. And then it, uh. Stops."  
  
Arthur keeps on staring at his hands, blankly. Merlin swallows, looks out at the view again and aims for nonchalance (misses by about an ice age, though) when he says,   
  
"Have you tried . . . You know. Taking matters into--"  
  
"Of course I have," Arthur is quick to interject, looking up for a sharp, glaring second. "I'm not--I--" He breathes, turns his stare back to the table and adds a muttered, "I can't finish."   
  
"Oh," Merlin says, a bit higher than intended. He peeks at Arthur, and the deep flush on him sets off Merlin too, and then they're both blushing--embarrassed with each other's awkwardness, completely unsure of the protocols for this and how in heaven's name is anyone supposed to--  
  
Arthur makes a small, miserable noise and tips his head back, hands clawing at the fabric on his thighs, trying to shift it for better comfort--probably only making it worse. It's impossible not to notice it now, not to look straight at the tight rise between his legs and Merlin can't help but sympathise, can nearly well imagine what it must be like to walk around like that for an entire day.   
  
Although when he catches the fleeting brush of the heel of Arthur's hand to where he needs it, as though he can't help himself for just a second, Merlin looks away--head whipping back to the window.   
  
Arthur breathes in, shakily. "I had to spar earlier," he says, sounding small. "For the show, you know, I . . . God, one of their stupid knights knocked me down and I--"   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see him cringe a bit, hunching into his frame.   
  
"So embarrassing," Arthur mumbles. "And they want me to ride out with them too, in like--an hour. In this state. It's so . . . "   
  
It's then, at that, that Merlin's vague sense of stubborn guilt catches up with him. It could, sort of, maybe be a little bit his fault if you--if you looked it at from certain ways, yeah. One could even go as far as saying it was perhaps a tad more than a little bit his--  
  
"Look, I'm . . . " But no, he decides, and instead goes for, "Look, I'm sure there are plenty of pretty girls around to--"  
  
"Yeah," Arthur laughs, short and humourless. "Great. You go find someone to seduce in under thirty minutes, then, if you're so clever."   
  
Merlin wants to reply to that, is even very close to actually doing so, but somehow deflates at the last second--breathing out a tight hiss, glancing down at the hem of his shirt again.

 

From his spot on his bed, rooted to his station without any orders to carry out, Merlin has little else to do but wait for the subtle changes in the silence. He doesn't know what else to say, can't fathom ways to make this easier--less of a fiasco, less memorable and perhaps a bit funnier a time when he can say, 'in retrospect . . . ' because god it did have the potential to be funny, hilarious even if it wasn't just so horribly inconvenient and intimate and--  
  
Arthur stands up, quite suddenly, hand restlessly running through his hair. He gets momentarily worked up like this, Merlin has noticed, tries to redirect his energy by pacing the length of the room.   
  
"They'll be expecting me soon," he says, mostly to himself. "They'll . . . " He stops by his own bed, by one of the posts, and even with his back turned to Merlin the way he glances down--tries to make out the damage from this angle--is quite clear.   
  
"Oh god." Arthur runs a hand over the side of his face, adding a vague, "Merlin, get--my--Christ, my long tunic. At least I can--can cover up the--"   
  
The creak of the bed as Merlin gets to his feet is the only indication he's heard Arthur and is obliging. He can't bring himself to reply with anything more, trying to keep quiet and unobtrusive somehow as he pads over to the wardrobe and fumbles with the cloths--wreaking havoc in the neat folds in a contained but rather frantic search for the tunic. On finding it he tugs it out of the closet, unceremoniously, and turns to bring it across the room only--only now Arthur is leaning into his bedpost, tightly clutching onto the wood--hunched, back still to Merlin as one hand works on his clad erection. Merlin can see the line of his profile, the frowning grimace and finds his mouth dry, his heart thudding higher and higher up his chest at the seediness of this sight.   
  
"Merlin, you have to--" Arthur tries, voice low and breaking, "--have to go, I--I can't--"   
  
Merlin says nothing. He glances at the door, tunic still in hand, then back at Arthur--at the tiny jerks of his arm and his blood rushes, muffles his hearing.   
  
"God, Merlin," Arthur says and this time it is breathless, and while Merlin knows he can't control it it still sounds too inappropriate, too filthy and raw. "Please," he adds, jaw clenching, "it's--embarrassing enough as it is, please just--go, Merlin, just--"   
  
A strangled noise escapes Arthur's throat and his hand stills. Merlin can see the effort in that, sees the jumping of muscles along his shoulder, and takes just one more carefully hissed  _please_  to make the high weight shoot down to the pit of his stomach. It brings his feet into slow motion, makes his breathing speed up just with the thoughts going through his head. The tunic slips from his slack grip as he travels the room, eyes fixed on the back of Arthur's head until he's close enough--is right behind him, making Arthur cringe further into himself.   
  
Merlin, unsure and hapless and driven by something so unlike logic his mind blurred with it to its most deserted corners, brings up an unsteady hand--hovering it over Arthur's shoulder. His tongue thickens in his mouth the longer he stares at the sweaty nape of Arthur's neck, the space between the fabric and the bump of his spine, the shadowed side of his throat. Merlin sways forward a bit, breathing closer to the skin as he lets his left hand come down, curl around the joint of neck and shoulder. He ignores the throaty protest on Arthur's part as Merlin tugs him back--making him lean into his chest.

 

"It's all right," he whispers, not knowing how his voice managed this steadiness when the rest of him is chaos. "Just . . . just let me . . . " Pulling Arthur more insistently toward him, Merlin lifts his right hand just enough to settle over Arthur's arm--stilling it in its jerky movements, its strained struggle with itself.   
  
"It's all right," he says again when Arthur's hand falls away from his breeches under Merlin's unwavering grip. With his other hand, moving in small circles between Arthur's neck and lower, he keeps him close--closer--trying to make him relax into it with a whispered, "Lean back," breath quick and hot to the shell of Arthur's ear.   
  
A final, closed-mouthed sound of weak protest and then the struggle goes out of him: he tips his head back to rest on Merlin's shoulder, face turned to his neck, exhales coming in anxious puffs as Merlin slides a hand under his shirt--slowly, calmly, tracing easy paths born of curiosity and uncertainty of any forthcoming rash decisions rather than a knowledge of that which makes Arthur's heart skip a beat, of a need to make him arch into the touch.  
  
"I--" Arthur tries as Merlin's hand dips lower, fingers skimming along the band of his trousers. He swallows, exposed throat so close to Merlin's mouth, and again attempts a, "I--they expect me, they . . . "   
  
"That's okay," Merlin whispers, and finishes with a quiet, "This'll only take a moment," before pushing his hand down all the way, palm flat and pressed to the hard length of Arthur's cock in the tight space of his breeches. He tries to fist it but has no space, and while Arthur stifles a groan into Merlin's neck Merlin's other hand travels down--loosening the laces, arms looped around Arthur in an odd mockery of an embrace.   
  
"Tell me," he starts, unable to keep from briefly brushing his lips over Arthur's throat as he curls his fingers around Arthur, squeezing. "Tell me how you like it," he says, starting with a few slow strokes, other hand clamped at Arthur's chest--under the shirt, keeping him upright.   
  
Arthur makes for a muddled reply, giving two indecipherable syllables before raising an arm to clutch at Merlin behind him--fist his hair, pull as he rolls his hips into Merlin's grip.  
  
  
"Arthur," Merlin says by way of a hoarse reminder, hand stilling for a moment. Then, as Arthur answer comes in the form of arching and losing breath Merlin has to say it again, say, " _Arthur,_ " low and heavy and followed by a growl, by ducking down to lightly bite at Arthur's adam's apple--the skin below it, licking over the mark and then sucking, hand speeding up again on Arthur's cock. He goes fast now, really fast and Arthur can't stay still under him, can't stop moving into it--back into Merlin, up into his mouth, his fingers tightening their grip on his hair.   
  
"Shit," Arthur breathes, looking up with heavy eyelids, eyes so dark Merlin's mouth goes slack and hot against Arthur's chin.   
  
"Yes--like--" Arthur's face contorts at a particular twist of Merlin's wrist, "--that, yes,  _oh fuck_  Merlin, do me--faster--yeah, like--"   
  
Merlin's arm wraps closer around Arthur's chest and he holds him so completely, hauls him up closer, lips wet from the licking and tasting as he brings them close to Arthur's. Their mouths are both open, slack, their breaths mixing as they move their heads in slight, minute movements--barely brushing lips, sharing wet and short exhales. One of Arthur's hand still in his hair, the other digging nails high on his thigh, Merlin leans in closer--not so much kissing as slackening his jaw further, coaxing Arthur's further open as well, properly breathing into his mouth now and sensing the hesitant, needy movement of Arthur's tongue so close to his.

 

Then Merlin goes for something merciless, dips down and palms Arthur's balls, gently rubbing the hilt of his hand over the skin--lingering with fingers and touches before closing his hand around the leaking cock again, stroking through the telling shudders. Arthur lurches with a deep groan, tips his head as far as it would go and up--into Merlin's mouth, licking his way in and already finding Merlin kissing him back, open and wet with eager tongues and hard, heady bites. They try to match their rhythms to Merlin's hand, sharing grunts and lazy sideways kisses until Merlin leans down to suck at the hollow of Arthur's throat and that is that--that is what undoes Arthur, in the end, and he comes hard and hissing, wildly moving into Merlin's fist and clinging, clinging through it, hips rolling up in gradually slowing movements even after it's over--he's having a hard time coming down from it.   
  
Merlin holds him all the while, waiting for both of them to calm down--catch their breaths, their muddled thoughts--his hand at first still on Arthur, then hot, damp and low on his belly--fingers fawned over the skin and he breathes in the heat of Arthur's neck, closes his eyes to the dip of his shoulder. Without looking, he slowly does Arthur's laces back up, tugs his shirt back down, straightens it.   
  
With a sigh pressed to Arthur's skin, Merlin then drops his hands to dangle a bit aimlessly at his side, and waits for Arthur to find back his footing--which he does with an air of mild confusion, like a question--before he steps back. By now he's so hard it hurts, it literally aches up his spine and there's no doubt how it shows. He blushes, adding a layer of bashful red to his previous flush of excitement. Such an odd timing for shame, he thinks, and at his sides he clenches his damp fists--one with sweat, the other not.   
  
"Well," he says, for a lack of anything better. "They're probably waiting for you."   
  
Arthur slumps back against the bedpost, stays like that for a while before he slowly rolls his head to look at Merlin, a curious expression in place. "Hm," is what he says, and glances up at the ceiling.   
  
"Arthur," Merlin tries again, aiming for determined but getting wobbly instead. He's just hoping for privacy as quickly as possible now, knows it'll only take a brush of fingers to his breeches now and he'd be done.  
  
Arthur sighs, swallows, and shrugs himself off the post. "You're probably right," he says, voice deep with the memory of the noises he'd made not too long ago.   
  
Merlin looks down, giving a slight incline of the head as a reply, and it's not hard at all not to glance up as Arthur's footsteps slowly drawl across the room to the door. Merlin hears the slight scrape of a chair, he's probably putting on his jacket, and then the heavy door whooshing over the floor with a worn, brushing hiss.  
  
"I'll . . . " Arthur starts, pauses. "I'll be back later." Then, "Or something."  
  
Merlin nods, back to the entrance, biting so far over his lip the marks reach the dip of his chin as the door shuts close again. A second later he looks up, head twisting around to make sure Arthur's gone, that he's alone, and on finding that he truly is exhales loudly--setting an awkward lope toward his narrow bed, uncomfortable in his breeches as he is.

 

He flops down onto the thin mattress face-forward, tries to shift his hips against it for a second before hissing--too hard, too sensitive to even bring himself off by rutting into the bed. With a self-deprecating, desperate chuckle he turns to lie on his back, slinging one arm over his eyes. He tries not to think in full sentences, not to complete his thoughts and hopes that maybe soon he'll calm down.   
  
And he almost does, very nearly comes pretty close to calming down and breathing normally when a bang of the door being kicked open without so much of a warning makes him jump up--arm sliding off his face, propping himself up on his elbows.   
  
Arthur stands there, the door slowly falling shut behind him of its own accord. He looks around the room, wild for a moment before locating Merlin on the other end and then it's purpose only--crossing the distance without a hint of hesitation.   
  
"Aren't you supposed to--" Merlin manages to squeak out just before Arthur grabs his legs under the knees and pulls him further down the bed.   
  
"Fuck the earl," Arthur grumbles, coming forward to loom over him. "I wanna do some more of this."   
  
"Arthur." Putting a weak hand on his chest as he leans down, Merlin attempts another pitiful, "Arthur, you--"   
  
"I  _want,_ " Arthur breathes, bringing his body down over Merlin's, "to do more of  _this._ "   
  
And who, truly, who in the world would have it in them to complain when a hand like Arthur's suddenly palms them through their trousers and starts rubbing, furiously, saying things like--  
  
" _Fuck_ , you're hard from jerking me off, aren't you? You're so hard, Merlin, shit, you're so--"  
  
So Merlin just arches into it, though still looks away with a conscious frown despite the noises he can't help but make. And Arthur puffs a voiceless grunt to his jaw, grabs his hand from where it's twisted into the sheets above his head and shamelessly presses it to his groin, saying, as if it need the clarification,   
  
"I'm hard too." Then, wet and filthy to the spot under his ear as Merlin begins to move his hand in kind, "You make me hard."   
  
And oh, that potion. That wonderful, brilliant potion and Merlin's eyes roll to the back of his head and a grunt is all the reply he's got in him, a grunt and mad hands trying to get off Arthur's breeches--trying to get at the skin, at anything, as long as it's more and keeps on being more and more as they go.

 

Arthur alternates between distractedly fumbling with Merlin's breeches to stroking him through the fabric, sucking in his earlobe and biting, whispering maddening things like,   
  
"Will you suck me, Merlin? God, will you put your mouth on me?"   
  
To which Merlin just about loses it, pushing frantically at Arthur's breeches and wriggling his own hips up in answer, and when the trousers are finally off--or as far around their knees as Merlin managed to get them--he is crazy with it, for it, grabbing Arthur's ass with two hands and pulling him down, grinding up, messily sliding their cocks together.   
  
This proves to be a move heartily approved of by all parties involved.   
  
Arthur slides two hands under him, mirroring Merlin's hold and grinding down the same way, seeking as much friction as possible--as much heat, movement, as close as possible and Arthur presses his forehead to Merlin's as he says,   
  
"This is so good." And, "Fuck, I can't believe how good this feels, fuck, I'm gonna--Merlin, I'm--"   
  
Merlin tilts his head up, stops the words with his mouth and his tongue, opening his legs as far as he can. Arthur kisses back and god he's loud, generous with his moans and grunts as they disappear down Merlin's throat. Arthur breaks apart for a moment, at first for breath and then for something else, lifting up a little, still moving and rolling his hips but now looking at the both of them--voicing his appreciation at the sight, and Merlin has to look down as well, watch the two of them slide together and then apart, rut into the relief of skin and the give and take of it. Then he watches Arthur watch them, listening to his murmured  _shit, so hot_ , and then he watches Arthur watch him again, eyes right on him--suddenly level, steady and brimful with headiness and not straying as Merlin comes to that, arching off the bed and throwing his head back because why not, really, why not just give in like that when they're already this far?  
  
He finishes Arthur with a hand and a whispered promise of his mouth, his mouth wherever Arthur wanted it, doing whatever Arthur wanted it to.   
  
Next to him on the far too small mattress, a little while later, Arthur catches his breath as he looks up at the ceiling--face open in a wild grin. Merlin is in the process of tiredly kicking off his breeches, toeing off his shoes with as little movement as possible.   
  
"You know," he says, word slurring with tiredness, "you can still catch up with the party if you want to go with--"   
  
"Who," Arthur cuts in, "the fuck, Merlin, cares about the earl?"  
  
Merlin glances at Arthur, says nothing, then back up at the ceiling. He lifts his head just a bit to make room for Arthur's arm, then settles back down--using the bunching muscles for pillow.   
  
Arthur sighs, languidly, and turns slightly to his side--greedily running a hand up Merlin's inner thigh, trying out the new territory.  
  
"We're going to be doing this a lot," he says, rolling into Merlin, then adds into the line of his shoulder, "I mean, as in,  _a lot._ "   
  
Merlin calmly curls an arm around Arthur's shoulder, hand playing at the nape of his neck.  
  
"Yeah," he agrees, and slides his fingers into Arthur's sweaty hair. 


End file.
